war has begun, and if they're not careful, a fatality will tear them down.
NO SMUT OR SEXUALIZING ━ if any of the triplets are uncomfortable with this fanfiction, it will be taken down immediately.
matt sturniolo x fem! oc x chris sturniolo (LOVE T...
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𝖛. What She Made Me
Maeve
MAEVE DRIFTS on a dark sea, and shadows drift with her.
They could be memories. They could be dreams. Familiar but strange, and something wrong with each. Matt's eyes are shot with silver, bleeding hot, smoking blood. Cassian's face looks more skeleton than flesh. Emira has metal pins in both hands, and her mouth is sewn shut. Weston drowns in the river, tangled in his perfect nets. Red rags spill from Cyrus' slit throat. Blake claws at her own neck, struggling to speak, trapped in a silence of her own making. Metal scales shudder over Valencia's skin, swallowing her whole. And Chris slumps on his odd throne, letting it tighten and consume him until he is stone himself, a seated statue with sapphire eyes and diamond tears.
Purple eats at the edge of Maeve's vision. She tries to turn to its embrace, knowing what it holds. Her lightning is so close. If only she could find the memory of it and taste one last drop of power before plunging back into darkness. But it fades like the rest, ebbing away. She expects to feel cold as the darkness presses in. Instead, heat rises.
Chris is suddenly too close to bear. Blue eyes, dark hair, pale as a dead man. His hand hovers inches from Maeve's cheek. It trembles, wanting to touch, wanting to pull away. She doesn't know which she would prefer.
She thinks she sleeps. Darkness and light trade places, stretching back and forth. She tries to move, but her limbs are too heavy. The work of manacles or guards or both. They weigh her down worse than before, and the terrible visions are the only escape. She chases what matters most ━ Cassian, Emira, the rest of her family, Matt, Weston, Cyrus, lightning. But they always dance out of her grip or flicker to nothing when she reaches them. Another torture, she supposes ━ Cade's way of running her ragged even as she sleeps. Chris is there too, but she never goes to him, and he never moves. Always sitting, always staring, one hand on his temple, massaging an ache. She never sees him blink.
Years or seconds pass. The pressure dulls. Her mind sharpens. Whatever fog holding her captive recedes, burning off. She's allowed to wake up.
Maeve feels thirsty, bled dry by bitter tears she doesn't remember shedding. The crushing weight of silence hangs heavy as always. For a moment, it's too difficult to breathe, and she wonders if this is how she dies. Drowned in this bed of silk, burned by a king's obsession, smothered by open air.
She's back in her prison bedchamber. Maybe she's been here the entire time. The white light streaming from the windows tells her it's snowed again, and the world outside is bright winter. When her sight adjusts to it, letting the room come in clearer focus, she risks looking around. Flashing her eyes left and right, not moving more than she has to. Not that it matters.
